I carry my heart in a chestthat has known both thunder and silence—sometimes I wonder how it still beatsafter all the storms it’s weathered. But the heart, you see, is not fragile—it is made of all the forgotten momentsthat once slipped away unnoticed,of all the quiet prayers whispered in the dark. It has tasted love …
Before the world learned sound,before breath learned its rhythmand voices learned their shape—the heart was the first to speak. It spoke in quiet thunder,in secret tides beneath the ribs,in a language olderthan any word we’ve ever trusted. The heart is not red—it is every color of the life it has survived:blue with longing,gold with courage,silver …
In the quiet of my chest, there’s a winter made of you,Where the echoes of our memories fall like early morning dew.I’ve tried to spark a fire, but the flames won’t seem to stay,So I live inside the silence at the closing of each day. People think that being quiet means I’m drifting far away,But …
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.